In the Future, When All’s Well

Can I take a moment to kvetch that Top Chef this season is just … meh? I’m not really rooting for a single candidate and there are many that I flat-out actively dislike. (LEAH. SHUT UP.)  Okay fine. I liked Ariane, despite her incredible inconsistency, but beyond that? Fleh. And I HATE the new judge. HATE. He’s embarrassingly insecure! And not funny! And … oh, it’s awful. I’m angry at the casting people for making me almost dislike a show that I once loved so, so much.

You bastards! *shakes fist*

Anyway, not to transition to an even duller topic, if possible, but did your family have things like house cheeses growing up? Or a specific kind/brand of jelly? Wow, I am not introducing this well at all, but for example, growing up, we ALWAYS had swiss cheese in the house. Always. Not cheddar, not American, not Muenster — it was always swiss or bust. In fact, I never HAD American cheese until long after I went to college. Not Kraft singles, not Land O’ Lakes sliced yellow American, not a single taste of American cheese of any form! None!

And it was always, ALWAYS strawberry jam — never grape. And now I’ll admit that I never had grape jelly until I met Adam, and I can’t say I like it much, because ew, concord grapes, EW.

My friend Eve grew up in a muenster house, and I know this only from eating far too many sandwiches with her over the years. She will ALWAYS get muenster, and she is, perhaps, the only other person I know who had a non-mainstream house cheese.

These are things I think about now — they’re utterly ridiculous, surely, but it’s weird things like this that make up a child’s memory of how they grew up, provided it was otherwise healthy and loving. What kind of cheese your mom stocked, or whether you ate your macaroni and cheese with ketchup or never had it at all. (We never had it, ever. My mom is Hungarian, so instead, we had things like fried cabbage noodles and chicken paprikash and now that I think about it again, there was an awful lot of sour cream involved in both dishes.)

Since Adam and I both grew up in such disparate environments growing up — his was much more quintessentially American than mine — I wonder what we’ll end up with, and what our daughter will remember. And what’s totally farked is that we’ll probably never really know.

Anyway, you may or may not be interested to know that thanks to your comments, a visit to the doctor today and some (for once) constructive Googling, I learned that my chances of being paralyzed or dying during an epidural are equal to or less than that of dying in childbirth regardless of method. Which, you know, is SPECTACULAR to know, thank you, doctor!

But further, that epidural statistics are factored using the general population, not just pregnant people, meaning that many of those who are afflicted are also sick and/or elderly, with things like infections and compromised immune systems.  And — AND! — I have a greater chance of dying in a lightning storm than I do being paralyzed with an epidural. Take THAT, birthy lady! I reject your fearmongering!

I’m sure I’ve mentioned this, but this kid in my abdomen really rarely sleeps. She moves constantly, even if it’s just flinging her fists onto my bladder, though more often, she’s sticking her heels into my ribs and spazzing out like she’s in a mosh pit. I’ve always worried a bit that this means she’ll never sleep when she’s out, but meh, what newborn does, cry me a river, blah blah blah.

However, never have I worried that she’s going to be a totally belligerent little  PILL the way I did today when the doctor REPEATEDLY tried to find her heartbeat and she REPEATEDLY dodged the Doppler in what seemed like a caculated fashion. She’d swoop in with the wand, and my baby would swim away, at one point swirling a full 180 degrees to avoid the doctor’s pokes. This went on for a good five to ten minutes, and it would have been funny had I not imagined her standing before me stamping her feet screaming that she wants an Oompa Loompa NOW, Mommy and she’s NOT LEAVING UNTIL I BUY HER ONE AND I CAN’T MAKE HER.

This is not unlike the ultrasound wherein she kicked the wand as hard as she could the second it appeared between her legs, over and over again. I can only hope she’s as vigilant when dating boys. Keep it up, kid. No one belongs in your pants, sister. NO ONE.

I realize this is all unrealistic and I’m totally projecting, but man, it’s hard not to, even over the most happy, benign things.

I hope y’all have a great weekend!

*Morrissey

51 comments January 29th, 2009